Dreamy Wisdom
I always find it amusing the way my brain tries to have dreams to help me but when it doesn’t have the information it just makes stuff up.
My dream last night – after a completely exhausting day – I am accompanying a friend to a physiotherapy appointment. My friend reports persistent lower back pain and the physiotherapist nods understandingly. “I need to see you walk,” she demands, suddenly morphing into an aerobics instructor with the high cut 80’s exercise outfit, tights, and leg warmers. My friend dutifully walks across the room – which has transformed into a stage - while the therapist watches.
“I see your problem now,” the therapist announces, having somehow developed a thick Russian accent.
“Yes?” my friend prompts, eagerly.
“Wet noodle arms,” the therapist announces. “You walk around with your arms all droopy, like this – “ she demonstrates – “and puts tremendous strain on your back.”
“So what do I do?” my friend inquires anxiously. I listen intently, my sore lower back eagerly anticipating relief, my wet noodle arms dangling wearily at my sides.
“I do NOT recommend one of those TIPS programs,” the therapist begins, her voice suddenly perky and accent free. She demonstrates an absurd workout that appears to involve doing the “I’m a little teapot,” dance while balancing on one foot and leaning forward slightly, then switching feet and doing it again. “You see how the balance is tippy and while the arms are not wet noodling, they are rigid, and put even more strain on the back.” My friend nods, but I am beginning to feel like this is not good or useful advice, although the description of this workout as “tippy” does explain why it is apparently called TIPS.
“And I do not recommend the HIDE workout either,” she continues, and launches into the running man dance. In between frantic rounds of running man, she repeatedly and quickly squats down, covering her head with her arms as though covering beneath an onslaught of attacking pigeons. “You see how the position is constantly changing between precarious and hiding? Terribly hard on your lower back and other extremities.” Again, I can see why this workout is called HIDE, but another part of my brain is pointing out that your lower back is not an extremity.
“What do you recommend?” my friend asks, still very excited. The other part of my brain is starting to think less of him.
“Well, it is just the most extraordinary thing,” the physiotherapist says. She has a British accent now, and is wearing a suit. “I have recently come across the work of a very gifted colleague, who has developed a wonderful exercise program that addresses wet noodle arms in the most comprehensive way I have ever seen.”
“What is it called?” my friend asks.
“It really is an amazing program,” the therapist enthuses. I can hear the other part of my brain frantically whirring, trying to think of what this exercise program could be. “I have never seen the like in all my years in this profession. It is called – “ she pauses tantalizingly.
“Yes?” my friend prompts eagerly. I have a moment where I think maybe my brain has read an article somewhere and actually does know the name of the precise workout that will heal me completely, and is just trying in an unorthodox way to remember and reveal it to me.
“It is called … guilty casserole!” the therapist pronounces triumphantly.
I guess not.
My dream last night – after a completely exhausting day – I am accompanying a friend to a physiotherapy appointment. My friend reports persistent lower back pain and the physiotherapist nods understandingly. “I need to see you walk,” she demands, suddenly morphing into an aerobics instructor with the high cut 80’s exercise outfit, tights, and leg warmers. My friend dutifully walks across the room – which has transformed into a stage - while the therapist watches.
“I see your problem now,” the therapist announces, having somehow developed a thick Russian accent.
“Yes?” my friend prompts, eagerly.
“Wet noodle arms,” the therapist announces. “You walk around with your arms all droopy, like this – “ she demonstrates – “and puts tremendous strain on your back.”
“So what do I do?” my friend inquires anxiously. I listen intently, my sore lower back eagerly anticipating relief, my wet noodle arms dangling wearily at my sides.
“I do NOT recommend one of those TIPS programs,” the therapist begins, her voice suddenly perky and accent free. She demonstrates an absurd workout that appears to involve doing the “I’m a little teapot,” dance while balancing on one foot and leaning forward slightly, then switching feet and doing it again. “You see how the balance is tippy and while the arms are not wet noodling, they are rigid, and put even more strain on the back.” My friend nods, but I am beginning to feel like this is not good or useful advice, although the description of this workout as “tippy” does explain why it is apparently called TIPS.
“And I do not recommend the HIDE workout either,” she continues, and launches into the running man dance. In between frantic rounds of running man, she repeatedly and quickly squats down, covering her head with her arms as though covering beneath an onslaught of attacking pigeons. “You see how the position is constantly changing between precarious and hiding? Terribly hard on your lower back and other extremities.” Again, I can see why this workout is called HIDE, but another part of my brain is pointing out that your lower back is not an extremity.
“What do you recommend?” my friend asks, still very excited. The other part of my brain is starting to think less of him.
“Well, it is just the most extraordinary thing,” the physiotherapist says. She has a British accent now, and is wearing a suit. “I have recently come across the work of a very gifted colleague, who has developed a wonderful exercise program that addresses wet noodle arms in the most comprehensive way I have ever seen.”
“What is it called?” my friend asks.
“It really is an amazing program,” the therapist enthuses. I can hear the other part of my brain frantically whirring, trying to think of what this exercise program could be. “I have never seen the like in all my years in this profession. It is called – “ she pauses tantalizingly.
“Yes?” my friend prompts eagerly. I have a moment where I think maybe my brain has read an article somewhere and actually does know the name of the precise workout that will heal me completely, and is just trying in an unorthodox way to remember and reveal it to me.
“It is called … guilty casserole!” the therapist pronounces triumphantly.
I guess not.
Comments
Post a Comment